


Life Over Coffee

by SlytherinHowl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, But I'm a total Jorleesi trash, But the story is not that bad actually, Crushes, Dany is a student, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jorah owns a bookshop, Missandei is her therapist, My First Fanfic, Not sure how romantic this will get, Please Don't Kill Me, Political Themes, Swearing, The summary sucks, and Viserys is an ass, anti-Jonerys, they're probably OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinHowl/pseuds/SlytherinHowl
Summary: Viserys can keep dreaming to restore the monarchy to Westeros and be king all he wants, I won't. My wishes are more down-to-earth: A flat for myself, a Political Sciences degree, a passport full of stamps, and most importantly, Jorah Mormont's strong arms around my shoulders. I wouldn't even need the first items if only I could stare into his eyes forever.





	1. Happy Birthday to me

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! Well, no, actually, but it's the first one I've dared to post. I've been obsessing with Thrones for months now, so I decided to have some fun with my faves. They're probably way out of character, but I like them the way they are. Just to be safe, nothing here belongs to me, they're GRRM and HBO's toys. Oh, and English is not my first language, so there may be some mistakes, but my English teacher proofread it and said it was ok. Anyway, have fun, I guess.

It is the morning of my eighteenth birthday. A sense of fearful excitement courses through my body. Of age, at last! Didn’t I eagerly count the hours to this day, when I would finally be responsible for myself and therefore, free from the iron grasp of my insufferable older brother? Yes, I did, in a most naïve fashion. “Freedom, little sister, comes with your ability to take care of yourself, not with another number added to your age. For as long as you live under my roof you are bound to obey me. You wouldn’t want to exchange your spoiled lifestyle for some silly notion born out of spite for me, would you?” My brother would say.

While he is right to some degree (money cannot buy you happiness, but it bought me my great pureblood stallion Drogon, and I am always the happiest when I ride him), being away from Viserys and his psychosis seems like a good prospect for the future. My _dear_ brother doesn’t acknowledge me as I enter the kitchen, which allows me to carry on with my morning routine undisturbed. Birthdays have never been of great importance in the Targaryen family ever since my father’s passing thirteen years ago. There is, however, one person (in Westeros, anyway) who is sure to remember the date, and even buy me a small but thoughtful gift: Jorah Mormont, owner of a small bookshop and café not far from my school. In his own words, Jorah is a ‘big bear of a man’ and I wholeheartedly agree (even before I knew the meaning of ‘bear’ in some social circles). In the earlier days of our friendship, I happened to be unable to describe his sweet, protective and masculine self, which made me resort to the word ‘bear’. Jorah, confused and annoyed, asked me with a grimace whether I knew that said word is used to describe strong, hairy and, ahem, _gay_ men. Upon realising that I didn’t, he laughed and even adopted the term as his own epithet.

Reminiscing about my bear does bring a smile to my lips, much like his sapphire blue eyes. I hope Viserys doesn’t notice that or my complete resolve to be as far from that damned school as I possibly can. It means skipping two algebra classes and others I don’t quite remember, but I would much rather spend my birthday curled up in an armchair in Jorah’s café than being leered at and mocked by my classmates and teachers. My father is the one who was the bloodthirsty ruler of this country once, but it is me, an insignificant high schooler, who gets the cold stares and crude comments. But not today.

The air is pleasantly cool and the trees are blooming with green leaves. I walk along the main street of the city towards my very expensive and prestigious private school (which is actually a cold, oppressive place full of spoiled twats), but I take a left on a small lane close to the historical centre. From there I navigate a well-known maze of medieval streets until I reach my destination: a modest looking shop full of books, old and new, and three small tables on one side. Jorah is fiddling with the espresso machine, and he gives me a puzzled smile as the little bell chimes and I come inside his shop.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school, Daenerys?” His tone is serious, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement.

“Yes,” I answer simply.

“Then what are you doing here at this time of the day?”

“Grabbing a latte and getting settled for a nice day of reading in your living room upstairs.” He smiles at that and circles the counter to embrace me tightly. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He whispers against my silvery hair.

I could write lengthy pages on Jorah’s hugs; on his strong arms and how protectively they hold me; on his warm, soft chest; on his smell, _oh_ his heavenly smell of books and coffee and pine trees; and on his barely-there kisses on my forehead that leave me feeling airy and thoroughly _loved_.

“I’ve got something for you. It’s not much, but I think you’ll like it.” He then retrieves a neatly wrapped package from behind the counter and hands it to me with a shy smile. I open his gift eagerly, trying not to tear the paper, and find inside a beautiful, old, leather-bound book called _A Song of Ice and Fire_. Oddly enough, this is the first book Jorah has ever given me. I run my fingers over its cover and lift it, to find something written on the yellowish paper.

_My dear Daenerys,_

_Far too many times have I heard you complain about the grey dullness of your history classes. I do think you will find in this book the colourful (for better and for worse) melodies of this country’s past. I hope the future sings of a young dragon girl who flew higher than her peers_ , _and shaped this place with her gentle hands. Spread your wings, my little dragon, and be happy._

_Yours truly,_

_Jorah Mormont_

My feelings are often well concealed behind a slightly blasé mask, with the exception of mild irritation (does it even count as a feeling?), however, Jorah always gets a reaction out of me. I know my eyes are wide and sparkly as I look up at him and my tender smile matches his.

“Thank you so much,” I say softly and kiss his cheek in gratitude. He blushes slightly, the sweet man. “So, can I stay here today?”

“Sure thing, child. How does fish and chips sound for lunch?”

“Sounds great!”

“Good. I’ll get you your latte. Make yourself comfortable.” A moment later he hands me my drink with a dash of cinnamon, just how I like it. I thank him again and make my way around the storage room to his flat on the first floor.

His flat seems to house even more books than the shop downstairs. Jorah barely managed to squeeze a small sofa, an armchair and a coffee table in the cramped living room. Still, it is far closer to a home than my large, aseptic house. I happily stretch out on the sofa, and soon feel a warm weight on my legs. It is Longclaw, Jorah’s Norwegian Forest cat. I pet him absentmindedly, already deep in the contents of the first chapter of my new book. It is engaging and beautifully written, often poetic, unlike most history books. Sooner than I would have expected, Longclaw jumps from my lap to greet his owner; it is lunchtime already. We settle down at the kitchen table, and Jorah hesitates for a moment before opening the fridge and retrieving a bottle of beer.

“Not gonna pretend you’ve never drunk before, I know you have. Still, I never wanted to drink with you, always feared your crazy brother would kill me. Now he can’t.” He finishes with a smirk and pours me a glass.

“I loved the book, Jorah. Got me thinking that our history influences the bigger context, not the other way around. Who knows, maybe a small meeting may change the course of things.”

“Aye. Do you remember when we met? We could never have guessed we would be here today, huh?”

Oh, _do_ I remember…


	2. Books, Old and New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters are mainly based on the show since I haven't read the books yet, but still, I am taking many liberties with them. Again, forgive me for any mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

Leaving Essos for Westeros was another one of my brother’s impulsive decisions. We had an established life in Vaes Dothrak after having spent nearly ten years there under the care of my loving godmother. It is where Viserys had gone to Law School; we spoke dothraki as easily as the common tongue, I had friends _and_ Drogo, who was without a doubt my first love. I belonged there. Viserys could too, if he wasn’t such an ethnocentric, racist bigot.  
“Belong here, Daenerys?” My brother said, anger etched on his face, “These people you call friends are _savages!_ Our father was a _king!_ He was a king, he was _killed_ , and we were _exiled!_ I was going to be king too, if that Baratheon pig hadn’t taken everything from me!” There were signs of his Targaryen madness (no, not Targaryen, for I vowed on that day to never be like that) in his wide grey eyes.  
“Is that why you want to return, Viserys? To claim a throne that no longer exists? A throne that was never yours, to begin with? Or did you forget that _Rhaegar_ was the first in line?” I don’t know where my words or my bravery came from, but I regretted them as soon as Viserys grasped my arm painfully, even madder than before.  
“RHAEGAR IS DEAD! AND YES, I WILL RETURN THINGS TO THEIR PLACE AND TAKE WHAT IS MINE, WITH FIRE AND BLOOD, IF NEEDS BE! EVERY PERSON WHO SUPPORTED THAT COUP D’ÉTAT WILL SUFFER! AND YOU ARE COMING WITH ME, WHETHER YOU WANT IT OR NOT!” I was used to my brother’s abusiveness, but never to that degree. He was always intimidating and I feared him for as long as I can remember, but he had never gotten physically aggressive with me so far. I cried myself to sleep that night, thinking that life couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong.  
Not even my godmother could convince my brother to think things through (or to go alone and let me stay with her), so by the end of September, we had flown to King’s Landing. I bid goodbye to my friends and godparents (the former haven’t kept their promises to ‘write and call and visit you, Dany!’, but the latter have, thank the Seven), ended my relationship with Drogo and left Vaes Dothrak with a broken heart. Viserys had arranged for me to restart school as soon as we got there, which meant that I hardly had time to recover from my hasty arrival before I was thrown into a completely new environment, one that was not friendly towards me. _At all_. The Red Keep High School was no place for the Mad King’s daughter, not in the Baratheon proto-democracy, anyway.  
It took almost three weeks for our furniture to arrive in King’s Landing. At least I had something to look forward to, because my new daily routine was rapidly becoming unbearable. My classmates hadn’t physically bullied me yet, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if they had. Two weeks in and I already felt like committing mass murder. I never did, thanks to Jorah. Back to the furniture, I arrived home on a Friday to the sight of a removal lorry. I was so happy to finally have my books back that I even helped Viserys carry some of the boxes to the house. We spent long hours sorting through things and, surprisingly, having a good time together. It was well past midnight when my anxiety got the best of me and I decided to question my brother about my books.  
“Viserys, did you see a chest full of books and letters? I can’t seem to find it.”  
“Oh, that? I left it in Vaes Dothrak. It took up too much space.” He had his back turned to me and spoke as if talking about the weather. I froze in my place.  
“You left… My things… In Vaes Dothrak?” I choked the words out, wishing everything was just a stupid joke.  
“It’s just books, Daenerys. You can buy more. Actually, I don’t even know why you owned so many books when you have a Kindle. What a waste of space.”  
“J-Just b-books? T-They are not just books! M-My _pictures_ were in there, my _l-letters_ from my friends, from _Drogo!_ EVERYTHING, E-EVERYTHING WAS IN THERE, VISERYS! ALL M-MY MEMORIES! GONE!” A profusion of tears streamed down my face, desperate sobs escaped my lips. My brother turned around and grabbed me forcefully much as he had done a few weeks before in Vaes Dothrak.  
“Then you make new memories, little sister. Life moves on, Daenerys. Get over it.” He said harshly and then stormed into the kitchen. I stayed in place, sobbing madly until my feet decided of their own accord to move to my bedroom. I hardly slept that night, having outbursts of crying for hours and hours. I was stuck in a strange, hostile country and my only company was a cold, egotistical, insensitive excuse for a human being.  
The early morning sun woke me from my fitful sleep. My eyes were swollen and my whole body felt heavy. Still, I rose, dressed and left the house, moving stiffly, mechanically, as if on autopilot. It took me a while to realise that Viserys would be furious once I returned, but in my numb state, I couldn’t even bring myself to care. I wandered aimlessly through the streets of King’s Landing until I reached a narrow cobblestone street. The rumbling of my stomach made me blink a few times and take in my surroundings. Two souvenir shops and a pharmacy on one side, a butcher’s shop and a café on the other. Above the door to the latter, a faded sign read “Oldtown Café  & Bookshop.” Having no better option at the moment, I entered the dusty shop.  
The place seemed old and in need of a good clean. Books lined the tall shelves and what didn’t fit there was piled haphazardly on the floor. On the counter opposite the entrance door sat a coffee machine that apparently refused to cooperate with the shop owner. A man in his forties, with dark blonde hair and a beard, high cheekbones and incredibly deep blue eyes was cursing under his breath and probably considering throwing the machine out of the window.  
“Love, can’t you see that I’m closed? I can’t really deal with anyone now.” He said rudely, without sparing me a proper glance. That snapped me out of my trance.  
“Well, it would surprise me if you could deal with people _at any time_. Thank you for nothing.” I said in a matching tone and exited the shop without looking back. I had reached the corner of the street when a light hand came upon my shoulder. I glanced up to see the man from the shop looking apologetic and distressed.  
“Look, I, ah, I’m really sorry. I was rude to you, in the café, you did nothing, I was just so-“ He sighed deeply and swallowed. “The day has barely started and it’s already a shite one. If, if you want to return and have a cup of tea and a muffin, on the house, maybe then I could make it up to you.” He finished with a nervous smile. I was angry at him, but his apology seemed genuine. I scrutinized his face for a while, disregarding the fact that it only made him more nervous, and agreed with a curt nod.  
It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His smile reached his eyes and he led me back to the café. Inside, he apologized a few more times while turning the kettle on, until I waved him off and said it was fine, that everybody has bad days. He seemed relieved by that. I don’t know how or why (and neither does Jorah, asking him about it), but we fell into an easy conversation. We talked about many things over tea, and not in a single moment did it feel forced. I nearly forgot my reason to leave the house earlier, as I was busy taking in what he had to say about Jane Austen, who is my favourite author.  
“We´ve been talking for almost three hours, but I still don’t know your name. I am Jorah Mormont’ He said, watching me closely and extending his hand.  
“And I am Daenerys Targaryen. Pleased to meet you, Mr Mormont.” I took his offered hand and noticed his eyebrow quirking up in recognition.  
“Likewise, Miss Targaryen.” His smile seemed to warm me up from my fingers to my toes, and I would soon discover that this feeling was here to stay.


	3. History Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that the last chapter is set two years prior to the first chapter, just like this one.

Viserys, as expected, was fuming when I returned home, but he eventually stopped shouting when he realised I was not paying attention to him. He could shout, glare and behave like a petulant child all he wanted, I would no longer care about what he had to say, not after what he had done to me (that’s what I told myself, anyway). I had enjoyed my morning and intended to return to the café during my free period on Monday afternoon. Jorah’s company did take my mind off my brother’s cruelty. My godmother assured me that I would get my things back, but however sweet her gesture was, it did not lift the dragging weight that had settled on my shoulders. But maybe another cup of tea at the small bookshop would.  
My second time at Oldtown café was pleasant, and so was the third, the fourth, the fifth. Soon enough my visits became a ritual, my only way to escape my suffocating routine. I used to think, especially in those days when I felt like fading into nothingness, that Jorah’s care for me was not genuine, and all he wanted was to keep selling his books to a rather generous customer. These thoughts never lasted long though, for whenever I set foot in his café, Jorah would welcome me smiling brightly, which is something I know he doesn’t do very often. He is a serious man, and lonely too, so you have to learn how to see past his harsh northern exterior.  
It must have been around March when Jorah took it upon himself to teach me the history of Westeros and of King’s Landing, since my history classes were by far the worst and my teacher, Mr Pycelle, was a decrepit old creep.  
“That won’t do, Daenerys.” Last names had been long forgotten by then. “I have heard of Pycelle. Apparently ,he’s been giving the same classes for fifty years. Come with me, I’ll show you the Castle, maybe we can start there.” Jorah said, extending his hand to me.  
These informal lessons with Jorah made me realise that Westeros is more interesting than I thought it would be. I liked the cultural diversity of Essos, but now I see that Westeros is diverse, albeit differently. The many people who have settled here throughout the centuries have left their marks on Westerosi culture. King’s Landing, for instance, was built in the Valyrian style by my ancestor Aegon Targaryen during his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. Jorah pointed this out to me when he took me to the bell tower of the Sept of Baelor, and showed me how the remnants of the original city are winding, taller and painted in warmer colours, in contrast to many typically Westerosi cities, such as Lannisport and Winterfell. The Red Keep, the country’s former royal residence and current National Congress, is also remarkably eastern, with its tall and curvy red towers and stained glass windows, as opposed to western castles, usually lower in height, with more straight lines and greyer colour palettes. Since I grew up in what was once the Valyrian Empire, these types of buildings are familiar to me. There was still, however, one part of Westerosi history that we both had been dancing around: The last King of Westeros and Robert’s Rebellion.  
“Jorah, what can you tell me about my father’s rule and the coup that overthrew him? It was a coup, right? That’s what Viserys says.” I decided to ask him one afternoon, after giving the subject some thought. I saw Jorah exhale and frown in apprehension.  
“Look, Daenerys, I don’t think I’m the one you should ask, I mean, It’s not a neutral subject for me, you know? I took part in some things that happened during and after the ‘democratization’ process, if you can call it that.”  
“I don’t mind, really. I don’t believe that my father was a saint like my brother does. Besides, the whole idea of neutrality is a big lie. Tell me what you can, I trust your good judgment.”  
“All right then, love. Well, your grandfather Aegon V had granted a fair share of autonomy to the seven states. Some of them, like Dorne and the North, even had local elections during his rule. When he died and Aerys took over, he started to centralize political and economic power, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but soon the State was verging on absolutism. How he managed to hold onto his power for so long is still a miracle, though. Due to many of his poor choices, we witnessed the dramatic devaluation of the Royal Dragot, while taxes only increased, and wages stood frozen. Therefore, prices went up fast, but people’s earnings didn’t. I remember a point in time in which inflation was at 69.7% a month. It was insane, poorer people couldn’t afford to feed their children. That caused many uprisings and strikes, all met with extreme violence from the national police.” He stopped for a while, but I took his hand in a silent plea for him to go on.  
“That’s where Robert Baratheon enters the picture. He charmed the population into following him and his promises of ‘democracy, peace, freedom and stability’, however, his methods were not peaceful. In the middle of all this, the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands thought it would be a good time to promote their independence from Westeros. It was chaotic. We spent three years in a bloody civil war; thousands died. In the end, with your father’s ‘suicide’, Baratheon took control of the government, virtually destroyed Pyke and the Greyjoy family and ‘abolished’ monarchy, as we’re all well aware, becoming His Highness _The President._ ” His words dripped with sarcasm, but he soon sobered up. “You must have been around five when all of this happened. I know that your brother wasted no time in fleeing the country with you. The papers, even the monarchist ones, called him a coward, but I think his move was smart, especially for a sixteen-year-old lad. The gods know what would have happened to you had you stayed in Westeros.” Jorah seemed impressed by Viserys’s past actions. I was not, for I know that my brother is not dumb. Mentally unstable and foolish, _sure_ , but never dumb.  
“But while I do give Baratheon credit for having the balls to face the system and for stabilising the economy, _nothing_ changed. The state is still repressive and those who were not born into the right families still have little to no chance to be politically active. No matter what the results of the _indirect_ elections are, the parties will always manage to strike deals to keep the same people in charge of the country. The Highlords are still playing their game of thrones.” I don’t know why, but I felt an uncontrollable urge to run my hand over Jorah’s forehead and soothe his frown lines. I also wanted to stroke his hair, but I controlled myself before it was too late.  
“And then there’s factor number two as to why Robert’s rebellion was a scam: a woman named Lyanna Stark and your brother Rhaegar. Do you remember him?”  
“No. Viserys said he was a captain in the army, but nothing else.” None of what Jorah had said offended me in the slightest, as I was expecting something like that, but his mention of Rhaegar made me wary. I now know that I had idealised my eldest brother throughout my childhood, but then I didn’t, so what he said next was a shock.  
“Aye, he was. Prince Rhaegar was also a playboy, a womaniser, even though he was married to Elia Martell, and had a child. At some point, your brother decided to pursue Lyanna, who was Robert’s great love. The official version of the facts will never say that the ‘revolution’ started because of a jealous rage, but everyone in this country knows it did. In the end, Rhaegar was killed in combat, Elia and your niece died in a shady car crash and Lyanna’s death was never explained.”  
I must have been staring at him wide-eyed when Jorah’s hand touched my cheek.  
“Sorry you had to hear all this, child. There are some details that I won’t go into, because my political opinions aside, it’s your family we’re talking about. I wish you could have been spared of all this, I wish you had a normal life with a normal family. You deserved better, Daenerys.” He said, warmth irradiating from his eyes. Then he rose from his chair and kissed my forehead lightly like he does nowadays.  
I didn’t know what to think or feel in that moment. I had nothing; no family, no school friends, no title, no national identity and no idea as to what I was going to do with my life. Or so I thought, until my eyes met his and I realised that my doubts about Jorah’s intentions could never be true. I had my bear, and he would protect me, no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on Westerosi politics and history is basically a mix of canon stuff and shit I pulled out of my ass, such as the inflation thing, which was mostly inspired by 80s/90s Brazilian politics. I had loads of fun writing this chapter, even if most of it is repetitive and kind of irrelevant.


	4. No one can survive in this world without help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to finish this chapter, but here it is. I do plan to write two more chapters, but I'm not sure if college will allow me to (I never thought it would be so tiresome, seriously all I wanna do is sleep). If I don't, then consider this as the last chapter. Thank you for taking the time to read!

If I still had any doubts about whether to trust Jorah or not, they vanished on that spring afternoon. He cares for me and I care for him in return, much more than I care for my own kin. The extent of my fondness for him is, like many other things about myself, something I am still trying to figure out, though. My therapist, Missandei Naath (therapy was one of Jorah’s contributions to my life, and I wish it could be extended to Viserys’s, since he is in dire need of treatment) can no longer hide a smirk whenever his name passes my lips. During my first months with her I was often wondering if Jorah was just a replacement for my father and my affection for him was an unresolved Oedipus Complex. Perhaps my small Freudian slips were more Freudian than I thought. Missandei does not like labels and psychological terminology, especially the ones I come across on the internet.  
“Daenerys, you’re a bright young woman, I don’t doubt that.” She said once. “But you can’t believe everything you read, even from reliable sources, ok? I’m happy to know that you’re invested in therapy enough to do some research, but not everyone works like the people in this article you showed me. Sure, there are many things behind your relationship with Jorah, and we really have to work on them, but that doesn’t mean you have a psychological disorder or complex. We’ll figure out what is it that bothers you, don’t worry. Worrying means you suffer twice.”  
I intend to explain the circumstances in which Jorah gave me Missandei’s number, but first I must say, with much chagrin, that he does not follow his own advice. My bear doesn’t trust people at all, so getting him to open up is quite a herculean task, and that is one of the main points of therapy, really: _trusting_. It flatters me that he chose to share, however superficially, some of his troubles with me, but he bottles most of it up. I know he had a fight with his father that still weighs on him,  
something about Jorah’s mishandling of the family’s company. I know of a woman named Lynesse. Who she was exactly I can’t say, but he looks away in pain when her name is mentioned. A long lost love, I suppose. I wish I could heal his wounds, just like he wished he could heal mine. That brings me back to Missandei and Jorah’s role in my search for help.  
My seventeenth birthday was nearing, and my celebratory plans consisted of spending the day at the bookshop helping Jorah organize that mess he calls a storage room. I had, by that point, found some decent people in the school, such as the Sand sisters, but we weren’t close enough for me to spend my birthday with them. On the day itself, I unashamedly skipped my afternoon classes and trailed my usual route to the café, hardly paying attention to my surroundings, until a familiar voice woke me from my daydream.  
“Yeah, I finally figured out what my stupid little sister’s been doing behind my back. Daenerys fell for that Mormont fellow’s cheap flattery. Going to his bookshop now, to teach that paedophile a lesson. I can’t let the papers know my underage sister’s getting fucked by an old creep right under my nose.” Viserys said to his phone as he sprinted through the narrow streets.  
A wave of panic hit me. Tears filled my eyes and suddenly my mouth went dry. “Viserys is gonna kill Jorah, I can feel it. Run, Daenerys! Get to him, fast!” was all I could think. I broke into a mad run, only caring about stopping my brother from harming my bear. I got to the shop just as the door was closing. In my frantic state, I ended up colliding with Viserys’s back and pushing him to the floor. Jorah, whose nose was bleeding, grabbed that git I call brother by his man-bun and shoved him against a wall, in an uncharacteristic moment of fury. Both Jorah and I shook with anger.  
“Daenerys, you must stay away from this man! He is-“ Before he could finish, I slapped him hard. Viserys looked at me in fear, his cheek red.  
“Raise a hand to me or Jorah again and I swear to all the gods, Viserys, IT WILL BE THE LAST TIME YOU HAVE HANDS!” I shouted to his face. “ Don’t you _look_ at me again! Don’t you _dare_ interfere with my life or spread lies about me _ever again!_ ” That hot anger I so hate was bubbling inside of me, making me want to punch my brother into paralysis. Jorah came up behind me and placed his hands reassuringly on my shoulders.  
“What are you still doing here, _you fucking prick?_ Get out of my shop and leave Daenerys alone!” Jorah hissed dangerously. Viserys swallowed whatever he was going to say and scurried out of the shop like a rat. I turned around, placing both my hands on Jorah’s bloodied face.  
“What did he do to you?” I asked weakly, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.  
“Nothing, my little darling. Your brother thinks he is the last dragon; he is but a lizard. I, on the other hand, am a bear.” He smiled softly, pulling me against his chest. “ _You’re_ the dragon, Dany. You are so brave, if only you would believe it.”  
It’s funny how small things can have such an impact on you. Those words broke me completely. I realised then that the fortress I had built for myself was made of sand, not stone. Seventeen years worth of fear, self-doubt and rancour came crashing down along with every little negative thought I had had that year. It engulfed me, and I could do nothing but cling to Jorah’s shoulders and weep. I felt my feet leave the ground and all I knew was that I wanted Jorah to carry me forever. He took me upstairs to his flat.  
I didn’t take much of my surroundings in, but I noticed the flat was cosy, if a little messy. As Jorah settled in an armchair with me, a big ball of grey fur climbed on my lap, sniffing me.  
“Longclaw, meet Daenerys; Dany, this is my flatmate.” The friendly cat rubbed his face on my arms and started purring loudly. I smiled a little and scratched his ears.  
“Daenerys, my sweet girl. If I could take your sorrows from you, I would. How could such a gentle heart always be so sad?” He was pressing light kisses to my forehead and stroking my hair. “There are times when I look at you and I still can’t believe that you’re real.” We stayed cuddled up to one another for a long time, with Longclaw purring steadily between my arms. Only when the sun was starting to set did Jorah move, retrieving a small black box from one of his pockets and a white card from another. He gave me the box first.  
“I was meaning to give it to you before your crazy brother barged into my shop. Happy birthday, love.” Inside the box there was a beautiful silver dragon brooch, resembling the old sigil of the Targaryen family.  
“And this” He said, spinning the card between his fingers. “This is something I want you to consider. Missandei is a client of mine who is a therapist. She works specifically with young people, and I’ve heard she’s very good. You are a brave, strong girl, Daenerys, but you carry a heavy weight on your shoulders, alone. No one can survive in this world without help. Let me help you. Let others help you.”  
I hid my face in his neck, inhaling his scent. The three words, _those_ three words threatened to escape my lips, but I bit them back. Would he understand, if I told him I loved him? Was it ( _is_ it) really love? I thanked him and decided to push my luck just a bit, by pressing a kiss to his neck. He did not encourage me to kiss him further, but did not object. After another while, he prompted me to help him with dinner, which cheered me up a little. We dined and he walked me back home, to make sure Viserys wouldn’t try to get back at me for slapping him.  
My threat, however, was very effective. Viserys has hardly bugged me in the past year. He didn’t question me when I decided to start therapy with Missandei, nor when I decided to invite Jorah or the Sand girls for tea for the first time. Things have improved ever since that horrible birthday. I believe I won’t have trouble getting accepted into King’s Landing University and in studying Political Science. And if I do, well, I now have some people to turn to for help. I can’t say I’m happy, but I feel like I’m getting there. And when I finally do, it will be thanks to my sweet bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the canon GoT and Newt Scamander quotes and get nothing for it :)


	5. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after quite a while I managed to finish this chapter. I'm breaking it up in two (maybe even three) parts, all set roughly around 2017/2018. Be careful, for there are _lots_ of romcom clichés in this. And this may be anti-Jonerys, but it is not necessarily anti-Jon, ok? I've got nothing against him, really. Well, hope you enjoy!

_Ten years later..._  
It is the morning of my twenty-eighth birthday, and my life in the past fourteen hours or so has become a galloping mess.  
I should be giving interviews regarding my Senate candidacy, or meeting Tyrion Lannister and Davos Seaworth to make campaign plans, or celebrating my engagement to the freshest face in Northern politics, Jon Snow. I am, however, naked in Jorah Mormont’s bed, whose head is still resting on my breasts. And I’m pretty damn sure I shouldn’t be sending naughty texts to my ex-therapist. Too confusing? Allow me to clarify.  
Up to this point, my life did go more or less as I expected it would. I got into KLU, I moved out of that horrible house, I got into real politics and I buried my brother, probably before his time. People are often surprised at how naturally I speak about Viserys’s death, but it honestly couldn’t be otherwise. I knew that what he was getting into was dangerous, that people like the Lannisters or the Baratheons wouldn’t give two shits if he was Viserys the Third of House Targaryen, first in the line of succession to _nothing at all_. Lannisters always pay their debts, but they also demand payment. My brother, being a megalomaniac fool, ignored this little detail. I may sound cold and detached, but I’m actually not. I mourned him, because regardless of everything, he was my family and he protected me when he had to.  
However, I like to think that my approach to politics was better calculated than Viserys’s. I didn’t just barge in and demand the rules of the game to be changed (even though that’s pretty much what Robert Baratheon did, and he succeeded at it), I learned how to play it. My involvement with social movements during my university days was decisive in gaining and retaining the people’s support, and working for Tyrion Lannister as an intern, before becoming a member of his Party, was essential for teaching me the hardships of this world. I have to say that for a Lannister, Tyrion isn’t half bad. He might be an irresponsible little drunkard, but he has a good heart, and he’s an exceptionally good teacher. Jorah usually says he ruined me, but I would have been eaten alive had it not been for my dwarf mentor/drinking buddy/shouting target.  
“Look at you, Targaryen, fresh out of uni.” He said in my first month as his intern, after I excitedly presented him with an idea to ensure women got more say within the Party. “Young and full of hope, wishes and great plans to change this world. It’s a great idea, really, but it’s never gonna be implanted, d’you know why? First, because you’re a twenty-something foolish rookie. Second, ‘cause you’re a bloody _Targaryen_ , for fuck’s sake, nobody trusts you! And most importantly, because you look and act like fucking _Elsa_ from _Frozen!_ You toughen up, Daenerys, you learn how to give these fuckers we deal with a good bollocking, they’re not gonna respect you otherwise! Maybe then you can survive in the world of politics.”  
That was the first big lesson Tyrion gave me: that no matter how polite or well-educated you are, politics makes you _swear. A whole fucking lot_. It took me a great deal of blood, sweat and tears (many, many, many tears soaked Jorah’s shirts as I drunkenly complained about everything), but I learned the rules. So what if my Party thinks I’m a radical leftist? I’m one of their most popular candidates! Besides, we’re the goddamn Labour Party! We’re supposed to be left wing, _actual_ left wing, not this centrist shit that passes for left, since the other Party is basically a bunch of hate-spewing neo-nazis thrown together to clean up after Baratheon and his massive fuck-ups. They’re efficient and organised, I’ll give you that, but neo-nazis nonetheless. But I’ve deviated from my original point. Seeing old, sweet Longclaw tiredly climb up the bed and nestle himself against Jorah’s side makes me want to return to my initial explanation of how on seven hells I ended up in my bear’s bed.  
Yesterday, the Party’s candidates for the upcoming elections were announced at a lavish dinner. Speeches were delivered, pictures were taken, hands were shaken and the usual empty pleasantries were exchanged. I didn’t like the pompous ceremony at all, but once the party itself started things got better. At least then the fucking paparazzi were kicked out of the venue and I could actually talk to people.  
Tyrion was sitting at a secluded table entertaining a peculiar group consisting of the ever flirtatious Yara Greyjoy, Sansa Stark, that shady rat Petyr Baelish, Arya Stark (she is not a member of the Party, Sansa probably brought her along to intimidate people), my counsellor Grey Worm (don’t ask me how he got the nickname) and his wife, who just happens to be Missandei fucking Naath. My relationship with her is complicated. I can’t be her friend, not after being her patient for years, but I also can’t pretend I don’t know her. Two things I know for sure: she admires me and I trust her, sometimes even more than her husband, and I’d be damned if the former soldier wasn’t one of the most trustworthy people in this country.  
Grey Worm and Sansa complimented my speech from earlier, and I thanked them honestly. Speaking in front of a bunch of uptight politicians is not my strong suit, but I’m trying. As we talked, I couldn’t help but stare at the gorgeous Sansa, running for Senate in the North alongside her cousin/brother (and my ex-boyfriend) Jon Snow. She was sitting two chairs away from me, looking completely at ease, leaning against that son of a bitch Littlefinger, who’s been switching sides and only caring about _his_ political gain since forever. People think Sansa is a brainless plastic bimbo, but that girl is a bloody political genius. She’s playing Baelish like a fiddle, I’m sure.  
Conversation flowed easily with the aid of alcohol, but I was glad to simply watch Arya and Littlefinger argue over some little thing Sansa did or said, which was making the redhead sigh dramatically. I also couldn’t help but flirt with Yara, who has the ability to remind me that I am not as straight as I think I am. At some point, after the actual dinner was served, Davos Seaworth joined our table with a nervous Jon at his heel. The benevolent, if a little misguided (you can’t honestly work for Stannis “the frown” Baratheon for twenty years and be completely normal) older man smiled brightly as Jon sat down awkwardly next to me. Davos kept shooting my ex encouraging looks, until Jon took a deep breath and looked at me for the first time since the campaign photoshoot earlier that day.  
“Daenerys...” He seemed at loss for words, eyeing Davos desperately. The whole table fell silent. “Daenerys, you and I, we, we’ve been together for a while now and, I wanted to ask, well I _want_ to ask if, if you would consider...” He took another steadying breath. “Will you marry me?” He finally said, opening a black box he was holding and showing me a diamond ring.  
I don’t know how long I was silent for, staring at Jon flabbergasted. He couldn’t mean it, could he? We had been together for ten fucking months. _Ten!_ I felt a pair of hands pull me up, but I was too dumbfounded to recall whose. All I knew as one of the girls dragged me to the restroom was that I was completely, utterly _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't read the books, but apparently Dany is _canonically_ bisexual and that is brilliant. Well, she does have a lot more chemistry with Yara than with Jon in s7. Also, Jon is really awkward. CHANGE MY MIND.


	6. Dealing with Daenerys Targaryen and Other Political Tips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for any mistakes. Haven’t had the time to proofread this part.

Whenever shit happens to me, my first reaction is to touch the small dragon brooch I got so many years ago. It reassures me, because it feels like Jorah’s with me even when he’s not. And I really needed him in that moment. Judging by the intense look on Missandei’s face, she knew it. Reaching the restroom, the girls and I ended up bumping into that sly harpy Melisandre Asshai who, like Littlefinger, worked for the opposition for far too long for her to be any good. She looked at me with her cold eyes and asked in a sickly sweet voice:  
“Daenerys, my dear, are you alright?” She placed a pale hand on my face. I felt like breaking every single one of her fingers, but unfortunately, I didn’t. I can’t give the Party any reasons to call me ‘Mad Targaryen’.  
“My godmother’s son just called me” I made sure to school my features into a pained grimace. “He said she had another stroke. I am really worried about her.” It surprised me how effortlessly the lie rolled off my tongue. Luckily for me, Sansa decided to play along.  
“Yeah, Dany felt faint when he called. Yara’s going to take her home after she freshens up, right?” Sansa smiled brightly, even though her eyes were thunderous, and Yara nodded. Melisandre looked genuinely shocked, so she must have bought the lie. She gave me her insincere condolences, and the girls and I finally managed to get to the restroom.  
“Yo, Targaryen, what the fuck was that? Why did you lie to that woman?” Arya asked angrily as I washed my face.  
“She was being smart, Arya. Melisandre is the biggest scheming bitch this Party has ever seen. We can’t let information of any sort reach her ears, ‘cause she’ll turn it into a catastrophe. She would have destroyed Dany’s and Jon’s lives had we told her about the proposal fiasco.” Yara said, casually drinking her whisky.  
“Speaking of that, why did you leave my brother hanging? That was, like, so embarrassing! Jon deserves better!” The young elite soldier was furious, with good reason, I guess. Well, obviously, since Arya is incredibly close to Jon. She is the only Stark kid to call him brother.  
“Look, Arya, that proposal came out of nowhere, seriously. Jon and I had _never_ discussed marriage before. We are... casual, really. The press made it seem like we have a relationship straight out of a fairytale, that we were made for each other, but seriously, it’s not that glamorous. I don’t want to marry him, at least not now that both our careers are taking off. And by the way he was acting, he doesn’t wanna marry me either.” I said. Actually, I kind of shrieked, but ignore that. The youngest Stark girl looked at me with her eyebrows raised.  
“Of course he doesn’t want to marry you, Daenerys. I should have seen it coming, Petyr has been going on and on about a ‘crucial alliance for the party’, now I know what he was talking about.” Sansa said seriously, before Arya could protest some more.  
“Whoa, what? A political marriage? _In 2018?_ ” Yara was shocked, but it made quite a lot of sense. No wonder why my relationship with Jon was so publicised, much against our will.  
“I thought only you and Littlefinger had that sort of relationship, Sansa. Not Jon. He would _never!_ ” Arya exclaimed, shooting her sister a nasty look, as if thinking it was Sansa’s fault.  
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Arya. I learnt that the hard way.” The redhead’s gaze lost focus for a moment, before continuing. “Maybe Jon wouldn’t put the Party before his feelings, but Petyr, Olenna Tyrell and Davos would, even though Seaworth probably doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. Davos is honest when it comes to his feelings, that’s why he’s so convincing! I bet he was the one to talk Jon into it.”  
“Why would they force Daenerys and Jon together?” It was the first time Missandei spoke since we left the table.  
“Jon’s popularity grew significantly after he started dating Daenerys. You are hands down the most important political figure of the decade, after Robert Baratheon. You could run for president and win, if the Party agreed.” Sansa said while looking at me, ensuring that she had my attention. “Your influence rubs off on him. But you’re the black sheep of the family, Daenerys. You’re assertive. You’re unbending. You don’t negotiate with the opposition. You’re _radical_. The Party can’t cope with you on your own, so it needs to reassure itself and those currently in power that you won’t go too far. In comes moderate, somewhat conservative Jon Snow to counterbalance your raging leftism. If you can _live_ with someone like him, you can _work_ with someone like him.”  
Sansa’s words made me look back and give voice to those thoughts that said that Jon and I have never been truly right for each other, truly spontaneous. I am not in love with him, and he is not in love with me, not really. The man I love was probably sitting at home with his cat, watching football.  
“I don’t want to be a player in this game of thrones, not like that. No one will force neither of us into an unwanted marriage because it is politically beneficial. Fuck no!”  
“That is why the Party can’t deal with you, Dany.” Sansa said, smiling softly. “But, please, talk to Jon first. I don’t want him to be hurt.”  
“And I don’t want to hurt him, Sansa. I like Jon, I care about him. Maybe not enough to marry him right now, but I do.”  
“Girls, we’d better get back to where the men were. We need to get this under control before hell breaks loose and people like Melissandre or even Littlefinger end up hearing and saying too much.” Yara said, reaching for the door.  
“I have Petyr in a tight leash- _not like that, Yara!_ -don’t worry, he won’t say a thing.” Said Sansa to a giggling Yara Greyjoy.  
“As you clean up the mess, would you ladies excuse Daenerys and I for a second?” Missandei said, somewhat concealed in a corner. Sansa and Yara nodded, and started dragging a still angry Arya out of the restroom.  
“Thank you so much for you support, girls. I owe you. If you need something that is within my power, don’t hesitate to call me.” Missandei entered my field of vision as the others left.  
“So, what are you going to do?”  
“I'm gonna talk to Jon, to clarify things. Then give Seaworth, Baelish and Tyrell a piece of my mind.”  
“Right, but after that? Are you going to talk to someone?” She hinted.  
“I don’t know what you mean.” I knew _exactly_ what she meant.  
“You’ve been touching your brooch far too much. _His_ brooch.”  
“You’ve criticised me for having feelings for Jorah.”  
“I’ve expressed my concerns about those feelings, yes, but not criticised them. I haven’t got the right to tell you who you should or shouldn’t love. And may I remind you that when you first fell for him you were underage and depressed. But things have changed. Look at yourself, a successful fully-grown woman, but unfortunately still pining for the same sugar daddy.”  
“Missandei!”  
“Go talk to him, Daenerys, and you may find that your love is not quite as unrequited as you may think.” She said, leaving me alone with my thoughts. To save my career or to follow my heart? It was a difficult question, one I could not ponder for too long. I straightened my jacket and left, determined to solve those problems. Determined to _win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m not a great fan of Arya. I much prefer Sansa. They’re both certainly OOC, but I think they fit the spirit of this fic.


	7. Talk to Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Clichéland, I hope you enjoy your stay! (This ship needs more romantic cliches tbh, everybody needs some fluff after all)

One of the many things I learned from Tyrion is to be terrifying when I need to. It happens almost naturally now, as if I flicked a switch and BOOM, ‘your worst fucking nightmare’ mode is on. It surely was on as I got back to the table. I swear that Davos _flinched_ when he saw me. Grey Worm was glowering even more than usual, Sansa had pulled Littlefinger to the side and was talking to him in hushed, angry tones, Arya and Yara were flanking a furious looking Jon and Tyrion?, well that little bastard was looking at me almost apologetically. It was like Seaworth and he had been caught with their hands in the fucking biscuit tin.  
“I would very much _love_ to have a little chat with these three gentlemen.” I said ferociously, pointing at Baelish, Seaworth and Tyrion. “At another time. Jon, can I talk to you?” I finished more nervously, abandoning my aggressive stance. His frown softened and he nodded, scratching his beard.  
The party was taking place at the huge hotel Jon was staying at, so it wasn’t difficult for us to sneak out of the dining hall into his room. I didn’t really know how to start the conversation, so I ended up going for one of our few mutual (and very much secret) interests: Harry Potter.  
“Jon, do you remember how in _Goblet of Fire,_ Dobby is working at Hogwarts and he wears those ridiculous clothes?” He smiled at that. “And he knits mismatched sock for Harry?”  
“Aye. Ron gives him his Weasley sweater that year. I don’t know how I know this.” He said, laughing nervously. I laughed too. Jon is a sweet man.  
“Neither do I... Okay, my point is: I think those socks illustrate us. Jon, we are a horrible match, we’ve always been a horrible match. I’ve got a feeling that you know it. So, did that proposal _really_ come from you, or did someone _else_ interfere?” He looked at me in defeat, hanging his head, and proceeded to explain the conversation he had with the men and the girls.  
“People like Davos were always kind of pressuring me to get together with you, even though I was too stupid to realise it. Even tonight they tried to dance around the subject, to convince me that this“, he waved at us, “isn’t staged at all, but when little Arya came back glaring daggers at them and talking of ‘political relationships’, that’s when the penny dropped, and I knew we both had been used as pawns in this sickening game. I feel so dumb and ashamed of myself. I’m sorry for putting you in an embarrassing situation, Dany.”  
“I should be the one apologising for embarrassing _you_ , Jon.” We looked at each other honestly, and in that moment all the walls were lifted and we could finally _talk_ , like we should have done before. We talked about what Sansa told me in the restroom (and he said that Tyrion _knew_ about the whole scheme, and in spite of not agreeing with it, he didn’t do shit to try and stop it), about our fears, insecurities and dreams, about our pasts, and even about our real loves.  
He told me of a certain Ygritte, who was still in his head even after two years. Apparently, he bitterly regrets putting his career first and letting her go, which is totally understandable, as I often feel this way too (only that instead of letting go, my career stoped me from approaching _that person_ in _that way_ \- until today!). He opened his heart to me, so I did the same and told him of Jorah, of how he was always the one I couldn’t have.  
“So”, he said as he searched his minibar for a coke to drink with some Jack, “political pressure apart, we dated each other to get someone else out of our heads and we both failed spectacularly!” He handed me a glass and we both drank deeply.  
“What should we do? My ex-therapist told me that what I feel for Jorah is not unrequited, but, I don’t know, do I just barge into his house and tell him I love him? Do I call him, do I just accept that it’s far too complicated for us to work and get on with life? What about you and Ygritte? If Arya tells you she still misses you, shouldn’t you try to win her back? Or at least settle things?”  
“If you go for your first option, do it while its raining, adds to the romantic atmosphere. But you should talk to him, and I... I should talk to Ygritte too, it’s just that I need motivation. I’m too scared she’ll reject me.” He looked fragile and hurt. I was about to hug him when I heard thunder outside and a mad determination took over me.  
“I’ll do it if you do it. Right now. You call her and I go to Jorah’s. You said I should do it in the rain, it’s raining.” I was giddy and excited all of a sudden.  
“Dany, it’s half past two, they’re both asleep.” Was it hope I saw in his eyes? Yes, it was.  
“C’mon, Jon. We finally gathered the courage to admit our feelings, we have each other’s support. If things go wrong we can laugh it off together and help each other emotionally. C’moooon, where’s your Gryffindor bravery?” I said, hitting him with a pillow.  
“Sometimes I feel like you’re too impulsive for a Slytherin. Do you really wanna do this?” He looked at me somewhat warily, but he was nearly convinced. I nodded frantically and he seemed to consider my crazy plan for a while. “I’ll text her instead. No, she’s blocked me. I’ll do it from Arya’s phone, and send you a copy of all the messages. You’ll probably get your answer first, so tell me how it went. Gods, Dany, I can’t believe that we’re doing this!” There was no doubt in his eyes anymore. Jon was just as excited as I was, and I felt like my ridiculous plan could not fail. He called Arya to his room as I hunted for my shoes and called an Uber, when he was done he gave me a bone-crushing hug.  
“I hope this works and we don’t make fools of ourselves.”  
“Yeah, me too. I’ll go get my Uber. Good luck, Jon!”  
“You too, Dany!”  
I rushed down to the reception hall and waited anxiously for the car to arrive. The trip to Jorah’s place went smoothly, with the streets being empty. Jon did in fact send me all the texts he sent _her_ , even adding a frantic, capitalised message saying “SHE READ THEM DANY HER TEXT BUBBLES KEEP COMIN UP AND DISAPPEARIN WTF DO I DO?” I told him, in capitals as well, to “CALM THE FUCK DOWN UR TEXTS WERE THE CUTEST SHES GONNA ANSWER U GIVE HER TIME”. Not my most articulate moment, to be honest.  
I paid the driver and jumped out of the car as we reached the old bookshop. I took a deep breath, smelling the rain and considering the absurdity of the situation. Yes, everything about last night was utterly ridiculous and cliché, but I didn’t know if I would have another chance like that, so I straightened my shoulders and pressed the button on the buzzer.


	8. Going Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, at last! Thanks to everyone who took their time to read this, it means _a lot_ to me and encourages me to improve my writing (especially in English!). Now, onto the (slightly smutty) conclusion!

“What the hell?” I heard Jorah’s angry voice come through the speaker.  
“Jorah, it’s Daenerys. Could you open the door, please?”  
“Alright. Just a second, Dany.” He sounded worried. I waited with my eyes closed, feeling the rain drip down my hair. I slowly opened them to see Jorah standing shirtless in front of me with a sleepy, yet concerned expression on his face. I knew two things then: that he is the sweetest man I have ever met and that coming here at quarter to three in the morning was my stupidest idea since dying my hair dark brown. What was I really going to do standing there? Blast ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ on my phone? Grab him by his shoulders and kiss him? Either way would be absolutely ridiculous. He did just what he’s always done and gave me a tight hug.  
“What’s wrong this time, princess?” Jorah said, stroking my face.  
“Don’t call me that.” I grumbled and he laughed, pulling me inside his bookshop. He guided me to his flat, and I all but collapsed on the sofa next to Longclaw, who looked at me angrily for interrupting his nap.  
“I’ll be right back, love.” Jorah disappeared into his room, and after a while came back with a towel and an oversized Bob Dylan T-shirt. “Here. Take a shower, then we’ll talk. I’ll make you some tea.”  
“No, Jorah, there’s no need, I-“ He cut me off before I could finish.  
“Of course there‘s need, Daenerys. Clearly, something bad happened. You wouldn’t have come otherwise. C’mon, I want to help you.” He gave me one of those rare, disarming smiles and I could do nothing but comply. I showered quickly and when I returned to the living room, he had a shirt on and two mugs of hot tea in his hands.  
“What did I do to deserve you?” I said, snuggling into his shoulder.  
“Quite a lot, actually. Remember how you threatened you brother to stop him from harassing me all those years ago? Or how you flew to fucking Castle Black the weekend before your finals just so you could be with me when my father died? You’re unbelievable, my girl. You made me a better person, y’know? The least I can do is offer you a shoulder to cry on.” He finished quietly, brushing his lips against my hairline (I figured last night that he has quite a thing for my hair).  
That small gesture sent shivers down my arms and Missandei’s words flashed in front of my eyes. _Your love is not quite as unrequited as you may think_. A small spark of hope arose inside of me, so I decided to tell him what had happened at the party. I saw a number of emotions cross his face: shock, anger, sympathy... jealousy? I didn’t know whether I just imagining things or he really looked hurt when I told him of the proposal and relieved when I said it was all a scam. Fuck, could it be? I was in such a state of confusion that I stopped my story right after Jon’s description of Ygritte, and searched Jorah’s face for any hint of reciprocation.  
“By the seven, Dany, what a wild night!” He said, combing his fingers through my still damp hair. “You were used twice, by the Party and by Snow. Being with you while loving someone else is quite a dick move, in my opinion.” I saw anger again in his face. My heart was hammering in my chest and I was torn between telling him then and there and keeping it to myself. The former option could very well put an end to my friendship with my bear, but the latter would just keep hurting me until I couldn’t take it anymore.  
“If Jon used me… I used him too.” I said after a while. It was my idea to come here and declare my love for Jorah, so I should at least face the consequences of it.  
“Why, sweetheart? Is it Daario Naharis still? I thought you dumped him.” Daario Naharis? _Daario Fucking Naharis?_ His obliviousness gave me a boost of courage and I couldn’t keep it in anymore.  
“No, you idiot. It’s you. It’s always been you.” I expected shock, denial. Maybe anger. Not the look of utter desolation Jorah gave me before he pulled me tightly against his chest. I shut my eyelids, but the tears escaped anyway. That hug felt like rejection, like he took pity on me. I didn’t know if I wanted to be in his embrace for as long as I could or if I wanted to break free, escape, and never return.  
“How long have you felt like this?” He said after a while.  
“Since my seventeenth birthday.” He half sighed, half sobbed.  
“My precious girl. Why did you chain yourself to an old, broken thing like me? I got nothing to give you, nothing but trouble. I am such a-“ His voice was thick with emotion and unshed tears, but I couldn’t bear to listen to his self-deprecating excuse. It brought me back to that horrible birthday in his shop. And I hate déjà-vus.  
“You are the most wonderful man I have ever met.” I said, holding his face with my hands and wiping his tears. “I want _you_. I love _you_. It took me too long to admit it. If you don’t love me back, that’s fine. I’ll live. But if you do but are pushing me away because you’re insecure and think that I deserve better, then honestly, shut the fuck up and kiss me already.” There, I said it! If Jon Snow, king of awkwardness, could do it, so could I.  
Jorah’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at me for a while. I could nearly see his internal turmoil. Finally, he took a deep, steadying breath and kissed me softly, tentatively. I let him explore my mouth for a bit, even though I wanted to snog the living shit out of him. Eventually he got the message and deepened the kiss of his own volition. I tried straddling his lap but accidentally hit Longclaw with my knee, causing the furball to protest by sinking his teeth into my knee and jumping out of the sofa.  
“What the fuck, cat!” I cried, letting go of Jorah’s neck to examine the damage.  
“He’s been grumpy lately. Like his owner.” He half-joked, resting his forehead on mine.  
“Shut up.” I pecked his lips again. “Wanna take this somewhere else?” My flirty comment was met with a grunt and a trail of kisses down my neck.  
“I just don’t know if I have protection, or if I’ll be able to, you know... perform.” Insecurity was back to features.  
“There’s a condom in my purse. Don’t worry about anything, my bear. Keep kissing me like you were just doing and I’ll be over the moon.” Of course I would love it if he could pound me into the mattress (spoiler alert: he didn’t, but came quite close once he got over his initial reticence), but finally being with him after years of pining was so emotionally satisfying that I didn’t really care much about sex then. I was quite surprised when he rose from the sofa with his hands around me, grabbed my purse and headed to his bedroom.  
“You’ve put up a few pounds since the last time I carried you, Dany.” He whispered teasingly and nibbled my ear.  
“Fuck you, Mormont.”  
“I’m about to fuck you, instead.” He said while placing me on the bed. Oh, confident Jorah is my favourite Jorah.  
Clothes were discarded fairly quickly, and he set himself to discover every inch of my skin before dawn. ‘Jorah the explorer’ had me writhing and moaning incoherently in a matter of minutes, and if that was not performing I don’t know what is. His fear of ‘not getting it up’ was proved unfounded. After a few of my strokes, his cock was springing to life and he was on me again, lust and pride in his eyes. I love seeing a man lose it as he takes me, and with Jorah it was no different, even though he restrained himself to try to last longer. It was a pity really, I would have liked it best had he fucked me with the passion I know he keeps hidden somewhere, and not been so worried about not being good enough for me. Still, we clicked together well, all we have to do is make some adjustments and we’ll both be having mind-blowing orgasms in no time. But perhaps the best part of the night was snuggling up to him, even though we were sweaty and hot, and hearing him whisper that he loves me back.  
Sleep came easily then, and I woke up feeling surprisingly well rested some five hours later. Jorah still slept with his head on my breasts. He looked beautifully at peace, and I couldn’t help but grin like a fool. Yes, his hair is thinning and greying at the temples, his face is growing wrinkled, but I don’t give a shit. I know I will face challenges dating him (the vultures at that fucking tabloid _Westeros Now_ will have a field day when they find out), that’s exactly what Missandei told me as soon as I messaged her, but it will be worth it. I don’t want to worry about it now. I already know that shit’s gonna hit the fan in the next board meeting, so I might as well enjoy my birthday with my bear before I give those fuckers in the Party hell. Jorah seems to agree.  
“You’re always on that damn phone.” He grumbles, raising his head and granting me a sleepy, yet satisfied smile.  
“Good morning to you, too.” There are many things I want to say, but I cannot find the words to say them, so I just look at him and trace his jawline with my fingers.  
“Happy birthday, my love.” He says, and his eyes shine in a way I had never seen before. In my twelve years in Westeros, I have never _truly_ felt at home. Until this moment. My home is not in this country, nor in this city. _My home is in Jorah Mormont’s eyes_.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it decent? Have I butchered the characters? Should I continue? (I really would love some feedback, but the last question was kind of rhetoric since I'm having way too much fun writing this to stop)


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